to have a beautiful daughter, and Miss Apperthwaite more than fulfilled
her mother's promise.

I guessed her to be more than Juliet Capulet's age, indeed, yet still
between that and the perfect age of woman. She was of a larger, fuller,
more striking type than Mrs. Apperthwaite, a bolder type, one might put
it--though she might have been a great deal bolder than Mrs.
Apperthwaite without being bold. Certainly she was handsome enough to
make it difficult for a young fellow to keep from staring at her. She
had an abundance of very soft, dark hair, worn almost severely, as if
its profusion necessitated repression; and I am compelled to admit that
her fine eyes expressed a distant contemplation--obviously of habit not
of mood--so pronounced that one of her enemies (if she had any) might
have described them as "dreamy."

Only one other of my own sex was present at the lunch-table, a Mr.
Dowden, an elderly lawyer and politician of whom I had heard, and to
whom Mrs. Apperthwaite, coming in after the rest of us were seated,
introduced me. She made the presentation general; and I had the
experience of receiving a nod and a slow glance, in which there was a
sort of dusky, estimating brilliance, from the beautiful lady opposite
me.

It might have been better mannered for me to address myself to Mr.
Dowden, or one of the very nice elderly women, who were my
fellow-guests, than to open a conversation with Miss Apperthwaite; but I
did not stop to think of that.

"You have a splendid old house next door to you here, Miss
Apperthwaite," I said. "It's a privilege to find it in view from my